


Only sand

by malurette



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Desert Island, Gen, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:35:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25286212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/malurette/pseuds/malurette
Summary: Rincewind, a desert island, and a sandy beach stretching all around.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 16
Collections: malu tries to write in english





	Only sand

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Rien que du sable](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14350512) by [malurette](https://archiveofourown.org/users/malurette/pseuds/malurette). 



> **Title:** Only sand  
>  **Author:** ylg/=malurette>  
>  **Fandom:** Discworld  
>  **Character:** Rincewind  
>  **Rating:** PG / K+  
>  **Disclaimer:** Terry Pratchett
> 
> **Author's note:** ESL author – if you spot any remaining mistakes please do correct me; many thanks to Feotakahari> for catching already so many of them!
> 
> **Prompt:** "Island" for GenPrompt_Bingo>  
>  **Spoilers:** between _Eric_ and _Interesting Times_  
>  **Word count:** 600+

Rincewind found himself exiled far, far away from everything. But after what had happened with the Spell and the Sourcerer and the Dungeon Dimension and the demons, maybe it was for the best.   
He woke up washed up on sand, which set off a mental alarm. Truth be told, anything would have set off a mental alarm. Rincewind had very high existential anxiety levels, though he called them survival instincts. Only not waking up at all, or waking up dead, would not have set off mental alarms. 

Awake and bent on surviving a bit longer, he set out to ascertain any immediate danger, or lack of it if possible. Exploring carefully, not daring to enter the dark jungle, he circled around long stretches upon longer stretches of beach. Beaches of sand all around, only interrupted by one meager stream – yay for fresh water! - accounting for a small island.   
Just to be sure, because you can never trust geography, he circled the beach round and round once more. Sand. More sand. Stream. Close, small island.   
Which was, all in all, a good thing. Not much could come here, or he would see it coming. Apart from, well, his own arrival, only bits of driftwood washed up every now and then. No dangerous animals. No invading armies. No, gods forbid, tourists. Or wizards. Nothing.   
So he could not leave, but he was not trapped here per se. Provided that nothing dangerous already lurked in the jungle or under the sand, he had his own private estate, safe from the outside world. 

He carefully circled the beach one more, twice to be sure, before tentatively approaching the forest. Even then, he never went far past its fringes, always keeping a glimpse of sand in sight between the tree trunks. He didn’t trust himself not to get lost in the dark, and if he did so, to walk straight ahead until he came out on the other side: no, he knew that if he lost sight of the way out even for a second he would be trapped in there forever. That would be a stupid way to go. Out on the beach, at least, he would see coming whatever did him in.   
Rincewind was a wizard, maybe the worst that ever was, but a wizard still. He saw the octarine colour and he trusted that he would know beforehand the day of his death. So if he knew he was to die today, he would stay put, afar from poisonous and murderous things, from rocks with sharp edges and falling things, until he died of thirst... or fright. The day hadn’t come yet, so he resolved not to die of hunger. Neither hunting crabs nor fishing went well, so he set to observe which fruits small furry things would eat or shun. He made his choice and gave his pick a tentative lick, then a bite, and when he didn’t drop dead, a hearty munch. 

Once he sorted out which fruits were edible, which could poison him and kill him on the spot, which could merely send his entrails running, or provide him with visions that would make him hallucinate that magic had found him again, he was pretty much set. He picked his fruits one day here, the next a bit farther away, and came back later. He circled his island so many times, waiting for things to regrow on older spots, he was now pretty sure it was sort of potato-shaped; not perfectly round but it was still his own miniature Disc – but he would never be curious enough to start digging around for elephants nor turtles. 

So far, his newfound home held no Rincewind-eating abomination, few biting or strangling things, not many poisonous forms. However, he could forage few roots and tubers – sadly, potatoes don’t grow in sand, and even if they did, he wouldn’t dare make a fire to cook them. Just because he hadn’t seen anything intent on attacking him yet didn’t mean there wasn’t something hidden in the shadows that would jump out, attracted by the light, heat and/or smoke. Also, he could do without a forest fire, thank you very much.   
Even if the trees here didn’t look like a regular self-respecting forest, or the idea he had of a forest, they were still flammable. And they provided him with fruit, shadow, shelter from crawling-on-the-ground things... as well as shelter-for-crawling-in-branches things, sadly. He couldn't have it all, but at least nothing had tried to bite him. 

Then there was nothing else but boredom and a bit of discomfort. And boredom was good. Here, lost in the middle of nowhere, nothing could come and make him leave, could come and fetch him, could come and make him have an adventure.   
Just to err – or trod heavily – on the side of caution, from time to time he did get up and pace the beach round and round the island, to make sure that indeed nothing new, nobody else, had come. Going round and round again and again, he soon came to distrust the very beach. It was an open space that his paranoid imagination filled with potential danger, and it was, well, made of sand, and sand, and more sand. And the previous time he woke up washed up on sand, he fought Dungeon Dimension creatures, not having any half brick at hand, with and handful of sand in his sock.   
So, eyeing carefully all that sand separating him from the jungle on one side and the ocean on the other, Rincewind knitted socks from grass. Just in case. You never knew when something might come after you…


End file.
